the burlesque poetess(s)

poem-a-day week13 (tiny instruments, big/glam songs)

July 26-August 1, 2010 week13: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

sorry for the tardy poem-a-day archival…i believe the teaser is self-explanatory/excited. NEW ENGLANDER poetesss.tumblr readers! you are most cordially invited to the premiere of “meff ‘n jojo’s tiny instrument revue!” this coming Thurs. 8/12 at a legit. delic’ absinthe bar— Nick’s in Worcester, MA. i’ll be doing some vaudevillian verse, ukulele, and of course burlesque poetessing. with zine-merch. niblets and a new one in Bowie-ku. i will say no more! xo

89. July 30, 2010 (fri.)

i woke up with a dream of a ruffled
Elizabethan ruffian costume. Courtier
busking, poetry for poppenjays.

.

On a porch in Watertown we get
in touch with our tiny inner skeezoids,
That’s me in E minor! That’s me in the spot

-light losing my back to A minor…
After rehearsal, a suburban hot date
complete with shopping for boy

-cut ladies underthings. Cupping
one another in the strapless negligee
aisle. i guess we are the same bird

cage, giggling and ribbing.
At my first trip to Friendly’s, crayons
and a root beer floats

to table by a waiter that could’ve
been a Backstreet Boy. When
we leave the parking lot, honk and cheer

at the purple-haired andro preteen
darting dangerously across four lanes
of traffic. Don’t let the squares keep you
down!

the rest of the poems li(v)e below!

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85. July 26, 2010 (mon.)

Frankly i don’t know what to think of Dicknose
in Paris, James Franco’s Gucci-funded boys’
playhouse, inappro’ and non-PhD related. Self-

cast as the queer theory-est het’ actor ever—
playing my dear poet mentor, the gay clothier
composing, an inner pocket sewing itself shut

sonnet-tight, purple thread inside the dreaded Mall
of America. He examines his manicured lacquered nails.
I admire his studied attention to details:

Maybe it’s my oversensitive sense of narrator,
can you be trusted to wear the Clinique bronzer
skin of a writer? Bones in tweed i owe
a letter.

movies about poems, oh my word. (italicized part of the poem is Spencer’s words) my mlle.tumblr posts about James Franco’s student film of “The Clerk’s Tale” by Spencer Reece: one - follow-up-two

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86. July 27, 2010 (tues.)

My virtual carnival kissing booth
has unicorn horn stripes- raised
barber shop bunting. i didn’t know

what to say when the warrior path
was brought up last week, but the ten
of coins and page view predictions

were in cahoots. Let me strike a saucy
pose beneath my scissors, pin-up
printing press hot off the scanner bed.

Let’s celebrate minor constellations
breaking through the light pollution
with bourgie margaritas. The restaurant

with the Spanish language lessons
blaring in the ladies room, the hostesses
in purple soccer T’s and waist cinchers

emblazoned with Tecate, Kokopellis,
but are too young to know Yes, it comes
in a can. Bring me a chilled glass,

let’s celebrate cheap
beer, i’m a unicorn mogul now.

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87. July 28, 2010 (wed., Jaggery cd release)

Listening for signals from other stars

The lightning-shaped shadow
a scowl makes on the side of a nose,
the glint of sunset cresting bicep.

.

Edrie dreamt Eowyn curled up with
the crepe streamers, bowtied before a party.
“It’s ok, they’ll think it’s part of the decor!”

Sleeping tart, still life with tiny piano.
Eowyn dreamt it was raining, stained glass
inside Church of Boston. The sound surge

crackled and the block went black. Acoustic
cd release by cell phone light, lighters
and i got the last mixed Malibu bev’

when the registers went down i guided Ela,
a bellydancer (with fairy orbs)
through dark veiled forms —the candlelit ladies
room, where i blot a dark kiss
in the back of my journal.

*i put up Diane Wakoski’s “Belly Dancer” poem on mlle.tumblr, too

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88. July 29, 2010 (thurs.)

Boundary breaking revision techniques

Remember nicknames that made you squirm
fondly when the giver passes on in their sleep.
Immortalize them instrumentally, eventually

even though you wanted to disappear
inside your flute case.

.

Hold a mirror next to the page, Little Thing.
Watch your hand as that of Leonardo’s left—
majiscules dancing backwards, devil’s fiddle.

.

Boar’s hair precision, surgical brushes—
purchase oil paints evolved enough
to meet water on the canvas horizon,
and to weep.

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89. see above-the-cut!

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90. July 31, 2010 (sat.)

Midday auction sniping for alto
saxophones while Phet serves me
iced arsenic, and Kev poison coffee—

goblets that match my new Goth
bling. Baby Siddhartha can’t upset
Napoleon pup, the pug general

makes a surreal-ly serene
retreat from tail-pulling. i admire
Niles’s concrete mold on the

back deck while spying on next-
door’s bring-your-baby barbeque.
It’s awful strange seeing two men grilling

chicken, corn, and steak tips
by themselves in the middle
of a lime green expanse of yard

while parents juggle a smorgasbord
of babies and meat in a tiny patch
of grass, mostly driveway.

With ice water, white wine, passion
fruit tea and pie in front of me,
i couldn’t feel more spoiled.

wearing my new Little Miss Death cameo/mourning necklace from Serendipitylicious.

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91. August 1, 2010 (sun.)

My silo of poem-a-days, pitchforked, baled
and woven for visions, future starry hayrides.

(Excursions to the French countryside
of my imaginary literary magazine.)

i was served pink galaxies, petite boozey
representations of the cosmos accompany

me while i paint buttery abs and a stormy
sunset. i only break for my misogynist

“stories” in properly fitting pantsuits.
Now i have trousers

to objectify further,
in so many words.